It vaguely recalled to Effinghame
a head and face he had seen in a famous painting. But where and by whom?
It wore a vile expression, the eyes mean and revengeful; there was a
cruel mouth and a long, hooked, crafty nose. The forehead was lofty,
even intellectual, and bore its thorns--yes, he was sure they were
thorns--like a conqueror. Just then Dr. Arn entered and laughed when he
saw the other struggling with the fan.
"My _Samurai_ fan!" he exclaimed, in his accustomed frank tones; "how
did you discover it so soon?"
"You've kept me here an hour. I had to do something," answered the
other, sulkily.
"There, there, I apologize. Sit down, old man. I had a very sick patient
to-night, and I feel worn out. I'll ring for champagne." They talked
about trifling personal matters, when suddenly Effinghame asked:--
"Why _Samurai_? I had supposed this once belonged to some prehistoric
giant who could waft it as do ladies their bamboo fans, when they brush
the dust from old hearts--as the Spanish poet sang."
"That fan is interesting enough," was the doctor's reply.
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